


Cheating

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We can't keep doing this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheating

"We can't keep doing this."

"What?" Draco asked in his customary drawl. It was as though the mere exertion of speaking just at that moment required some kind of rallying effort: "What can't we keep doing?"

Ron snorted. "This, _this _– " he threw his arms wide, gesturing emphatically in the hope that this alone would manage to convey – to define – the nature of whatever _this_ actually was; "We can't keep doing this, Malfoy. It's not right."

Draco raised an eyebrow; a smirk flitted across his lips. He reached for his trousers – discarded beside him on the floor – and rummaged about for his cigarettes.

"Malfoy, are you listening to me?"

"I'm trying not to," Draco replied as an as-yet-unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, "But you're making it awfully difficult."

"Ha bloody ha." Ron shook his head. "It's not a joke, Malfoy. I'm serious."

"I know that. You – you and your lot – are always so bloody serious." Draco paused. He took a long, deep drag of his cigarette; the tip glowed brightly: incendiary amber even in this early afternoon light.

"Perhaps you should learn to lighten up."

With pursed lips, Draco exhaled; plumes of smoke rolled over his lips and tongue before being released in rambling curls, into the air.

Ron spluttered as the bitterness of Draco's tobacco tickled his throat: "Bastard," he managed to choke out; "You know I don't like that, Malfoy. The smoking."

"I don't see what concern it is of yours, _Weasley_ \- seeing as _we can't keep doing this_," he added mockingly.

"We can't. You know we can't." Ron muttered angrily; he scrambled to his feet.

He stumbled.

"No, I don't. But you seem very sure of it." Draco remained relaxed in his prostrate position on the floor. He shifted. The coarse fabric of the carpeting grazed his bare arse.

"I am sure of one thing though, _Weasley_." Draco exaggerated Ron's surname; he held it on his tongue, entwined with saliva and stale beer; and the uncompromising acridity of his cigarette.

"And what's that?" Ron asked as he busied himself with dressing, as he hurriedly snatched up crumpled clothes from the floor.

"That for all your talk, none of it matters."

Ron paused. Standing on one leg as he slid the other into his trousers he became still. He turned to Draco: "What - what're you on about?"

"None of it matters. _None_ of it. See, Weasley," Draco got to his feet and approached Ron who was, by this time, hopping in order to maintain his balance as he tried to dress.

"See, Weasley," Draco repeated: "You need this."

"Fuck off, Malfoy." Ron tripped over a dangling trouser-leg; he fell back and landed, amid a tangle of wrinkled clothing and flushed cheeks, with a thud.

"Whatever this is," Draco whispered as he fell to his knees to join Ron on the floor: "Whatever this is, you fucking _need_ it, Weasley." __

Draco crawled towards Ron. His movements were languorous, as though he were some sort of wild beast stalking his prey. He sidled up between Ron's legs: "You need me."

Flustered, Ron swallowed: his Adam's apple bobbing; the last rays of afternoon sunlight catching the sheen of sweat that prickled on his freckled skin.

"Fuck off, Malfoy. I don't need fucking _anything_ from you."

"See, I think you do."

"Fuck off."

The words were worn; frail and crumbling as they were uttered.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Ron tried again, but it did not matter. Even as he spoke – as his mouth formed the words and each syllable tumbled from his mouth, he pulled Draco to him. Draco, in turn, pressed his naked body to Ron's half-clothed form. He pushed against him. The fabric of Ron's trousers skimmed the soft, tender skin of Draco's cock; he gasped. Holding Ron's gaze as he moved, Draco ran his hands over Ron's sides. Ron squirmed beneath Draco; he pushed back against Draco's chest and slim hips, hard, with the heel of his palms.

With parted lips and increasingly rapid breaths, Draco continued to press his body to Ron's. He ground his hips against him and, soon, he could feel the rigidity of Ron's cock straining against his own.

The rhythm of Ron's breathing soon matched Draco's as they writhed against one another.

"'s not right," Ron wheezed: "It's not right."

"Hush," Draco grunted, his usually aloof tone of voice replaced by a low, bestial reverberation: _"Hush."_

He crushed his mouth to Ron's: lips and tongues meeting with a desperate ferocity as they each grappled with one another; lost in the push and pull of their movements, awash in guttural moans and sighs; surrendering to the smacking of lips and great, shuddering lungfuls of air as they each kneaded the other's flesh; groped muscle and clung to bone.

*

 

Draco raised himself up on his elbows. He looked about in the dark. Night had fallen; the remainder of the day that he and Ron had spent together had dissipated in a flurry of thrusts and groans without either having quite realised what had occurred.

And now it was night; and Ron was still with him: still sprawled out beside Draco on the lounge room floor, all long, freckled limbs and pale skin.

And regardless of what Ron would undoubtedly say: of the protestations that would come in the morning (or whenever it would be that he would wake); of his impassioned pleas that this – this cheating, this lying, this haphazard collection of stolen moments that were the only thing they could each truly call their own – this, whatever this was, was wrong, Ron would return.

He would always return: and Draco smiled, because he knew, even if Ron didn't; Draco knew that it was right.

However they had gone about it – and however they would continue to go about it – was, and would be, right.

Satisfied, Draco sank back down onto the floor. He rested the back of his head in his clasped hands; he sighed.

Beside him Ron groaned; his fingers groped in the dark and the inevitable words soon followed:

"We can't keep doing this."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Team Draco as part of the Ficadron.


End file.
